


Red Little Shoes

by xHonestSecretsx



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Divorce, F/M, IVF, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-07 00:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16843246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xHonestSecretsx/pseuds/xHonestSecretsx
Summary: High school sweethearts Sigurd and (Y/N) have the perfect little life. Except for the fact that Sigurd has led his prima ballerina on with the premise that they will have children later. (Y/N) decides to leave.





	1. I: A Baby, Please!

[](https://66.media.tumblr.com/34fd58389a4bf9a8e82122e8b512020d/tumblr_pbx3gjGPaj1v19l0n_500.jpg)

You were his high school love.

The pretty girl dancing ballet in the middle of the courtyard without friends, spin after spin with her eye on him, pluckily playing his stringed instrument. That girl that wasn’t shy to dance in front of anyone! That was his girl.

The very same girl that wanted a boat load of children. Six to be exact. Sigurd didn’t want to share his pretty wife with six children— on top of the fact that you were a performing dancer. Hours of recitals, picking the prettiest dresses for costume and posing for your fans grew tiring.

And at 31 with a successful ballet studio, you finally wanted to have a baby. Except he didn’t. He could go forever with your eyes on him alone.

“What is so wrong with taking off the condoms?” You say up to him, nails stroking along his biceps as he holds himself above you. Sigurd lets out a groan when your other hand wanders down his sweaty chest, rolling off of your body. He unrolls his spent white condom off his dick, flicking it into the trash as you roll back to where he was. You meet him with an intense stare— one he can’t beat.

“I’ve told you before— I don’t want to share you.” Sigurd sighs.

“You also said that I could have three.”

He laments at the mention. He knew he said that… when you told him that not having one would be a deal breaker. How could he lose you over this? If he could… just buy some time. But he could only buy you off for so long with his words.

“I… did.” Sigurd says as he pulls you in, despite the face that you would curl away from him. “My love.” He whispers sweetly. Nothing. You wouldn’t even look at him. He knew that his pretty prima ballerina was at the end of her rope.

“I’ll take it off next time.” He concedes the words— knowing he really wouldn’t.

“She wants you to cum in her and you don’t want to? Sigurd… c’mon.” Hvitserk laughs, his brothers beside him at this glow bright club. The drinks were falling down his throat rather then slowly being consumed– he had so many, he wasn’t sure how he was sitting upright anymore. It wasn’t helping. He just felt like he was looking for a fight. Ubbe leans back in his chair, arms folded over one another.

“You’ve been married for how many years?”

Sigurd supplies the answer: since they were nineteen. Sigurd says nothing else of use, hand in his flaxen hair. He holds a sharp tasting tequila, still nursing where the hot smack across his cheek was a few hours ago. Liar! You smacked him so hard, his head was spinning. You never had hit him before. Then again, he led you on once again… like he usually did.

“If I knock her up, I have to share her. Don’t I Björn?” He asks his oldest of brothers who merely shrugs his shoulders. The same brother who would creampie his woman anyway. He glances off as a woman slips by, half of her ass falling out of a tight little dress that had his mind running. Bjorn takes up his glass, “It’ll be fun.” He says slipping off in the direction of the girl.

Honestly– he thinks.

“So give her some, that way mother will get off our backs about grandchildren.” Ubbe chides lightly to Hvitserk while Ivar snorts, fingers clicking against his glass. He takes a nasty long sip, hissing as he finishes and looks to his brother.

“If you’re not a boy, you’ll just give them to her before she finds a man that will.” Ivar empathizes the end of his statement, causing Sigurd to turn up in his chair and glare at him. Tonight was not a good night to fight with Ivar. He was ready to start a brawl already.

“What does that mean?” Sigurd asks, his grip tightening on his glass.

“Means whatever you take it to mean.” Ivar gives a bemused squeeze of his lips into a frown. He sinks back down in his chair, sucking down his drink. Hvitserk pretends as if he’s not there any longer by sliding himself down, looking over his shoulder to the women passing. Ubbe tsks his tongue, looking over to Ivar.

“He means nothing. Sigurd— just do it for her, eh?” Ubbe says, but he still can’t convince himself to do it. He was too greedy.

When he went home the next morning, the sun was high up in the sky. He ran out in a rush– leaving you behind with nothing to do but mope like you usually did. It would be something he could fix in the morning. He could serenade you, make you a brunch and explain… further. If just a few more years of having you to himself. That would be okay.

But then there were boxes. Lots and lots of boxes. He passes by your shared front porch where you waddle out, pinching his brow momentarily before kicking off. He came beside you, rising up onto your tippiest of tippy toes to slide your box into your truck.

“What are you doing?” He asks.

“Leaving you.” You answer in a whirl of your hair, tight in a ponytail on top of your head. The strands of red ribbon flutters in the wind against his nose as he pulls close to you.

“Wha… what?” Sigurd stutters, words heavy on his tongue like the booze that begins to churn his stomach from an early breakfast. You climb the concrete steps of your patio to the boxes that sit neatly arranged by your best friend Livvy, who seals the last of the boxes shut with cherry red tape.

“You don’t want babies, fine. But I do.” You say as Livvy pops up with a box, moving each into your electric blue truck. Sigurd cuts you off just as you set another box in the truck.

This wasn’t happening.

“That is not what I said! I said I don’t— want to share me. I know. But now you won’t have to because you won’t have me at all.” You turn for another box, eyes snapping back to Sigurd by the desperation in his voice. Your tone was sharp and triggers him to be more so. After all these years, you thought you could leave? Just like that? His fist collides with your truck, making Livvy bounce and look out the rearview mirror.

But you aren’t doing your usual slump, falling for his sweet kisses and how he might tell you it will all be alright in a year or two. How your aging womb can handle some more time. You might have been young, but you didn’t want to be chasing a son at sixty or worse.

“All this for a baby?” He folds his arms one over another, rolling his eyes and sighing darkly at you. No way he could understand why you were so adamant about this. You were: enough to break up with him about it. You were married… you didn’t just break up for laughs and giggles. 

“All this because you lied to me. You led me on. For years.” You lean up to him, the curly fluff of his hair brushing against yours. Your nose would tickle his as if to almost steal a kiss from those pouting lips. As he leans forward, you drift back.

“You can’t leave me.” He hisses— and there’s a disconnect between your confidence in this choice. You take a shaking breath, brushing past him to pull yourself up into your truck. You haul yourself in and shove the key into the ignition, roaring the engine to life.

“Watch me, Sigurd.”


	2. II: Take Him with You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sigurd needs to see his wife once again. He can't deny that he misses her. Ivar may have a way in.

A year had passed since he had been without her. A year of blightful days and empty holidays unlike he had before. Other women could fill the void for only hours– before it was back to the reality that his wife didn’t want him anymore. Sure, he had never received divorce papers. But she was also not here anymore.

He was walking with his brothers when he saw it, the beautiful new ballet. Strewn over the cover, she lay in chiffon and ribbon. Her dress was a delightful blood red stained by a peppering of glittering gems. Her most beautiful yet with matching ballet shoes. (Y/N)’s last performance before retiring! It read.

“I have to see her.” Sigurd tells Ubbe, glazing his finger over the glossy card. He withdraws his phone, searching the seats. Full. Nothing left.

He cursed the thought of missing this. This finale had to mean so fucking much to you— when you were on stage, it was like he was watching that gleeful teenager all over again. Your smile could light up his world in seconds. There was nothing like seeing you dolled up and looking like a queen, taking pictures with ambitious little girls and boys.

“Ivar has tickets.” Ubbe motions to his young brother, looking over to where Ivar sat with a bottle in his hand. His eyes keen in glee where Sigurd knit his jaw tight. He wanted him to beg for it. He could see it written over Ivar’s smug face, bringing the lip of the bottle to his lips.

But then again, why did Ivar have tickets? He hated dance. He hated the arts. He was a fucking engineer!

“Why do you have tickets?” Sigurd bites out. Ivar rose his eyebrows as if to mock that he didn’t know why his brother was acting this way. The tension in his forehead relaxes as he moves to answer his brother.

“We talk. She wants me to go see her dance. I’m taking her out to dinner after.” Ivar sets his drink down and reclines on one hand, an onyx watch glistening on his wrist against his cheek.

“You’re taking my wife out?” Sigurd snaps abruptly, his voice tints darkly with the insinuation that Ivar shouldn’t be allowed to take her out. Hvitserk looks to the waitress coming by to take Sigurd’s order, setting him down a basket of chicken wings that he ordered– appetizer of course!

“Is that a problem?” Ivar says as if he can’t be bothered to deal with his attitude. Sigurd huffs our harsh, sharp breaths shoving his phone back into the pocket of his jeans.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?!” He hisses back. Ivar folds his thick arms one over another, ones you’ve commented on more than once. All the moments of passively flirting between the two of you come to the surface, tension bubbling in his fingers. Ivar snuggles his arms against his tight v-neck shirt and scoffs just as the poor little waitress bit out a smile. I’ll be back later! She says, but neither brother is listening.

“No, brother, I get it. You think I’m fucking your girl’s sweet pussy. Oh but wait, she left you. Didn’t she?” Ivar snaps back just as Sigurd jumps up out of his chair, drawing the attention of everyone towards them.

“Fuck you!” Sigurd’s fists ball up at his sides. Hvitserk chews on his chicken bone, looking over when Ubbe grabs Sigurd’s shoulder, yanking him back down to sit. He looks to the waitress peeping over, flashing her a smile that said he had it.

“Ivar. Take Sigurd with you.” He says garnering the hateful leer from Ivar. The two of them? Alone? He never heard anything stupider from the oldest of the brothers.

“I was taking mother.” He snaps. “Why should I take him? He doesn’t even like me.”

“Because I’m telling you to.” Ubbe hisses— causing the younger brother to hiss in distaste.

“Fine.”

* * *

It was awkward to be in the same car with Ivar. He felt like he was choking on a thick smog of his own resentment. His blonde hair was neat and prom, the blue of his button down in his black slacks. Ivar works the steering wheel, turning into the valet parking. As he turns his car off, Sigurd lurches over to grab his arm.

“Have you fucked her?” Sigurd asks through the silence, cutting through the awkwardness with a knife of hate. Ivar momentarily holds his gaze before popping the door open.

“What if I did?” Ivar hisses. Sigurd squirms in his chair under the words, hands going sweaty. You could have fucked his brother– why would you invite Ivar otherwise? It wasn’t as if that temper made him a supremely hot date. Ivar adjusts his slender black tie against his charcoal vest waiting for Sigurd to get out.

“Hurry up.” He bites out, limping over to hand his keys off. It still eats him– what if you did betray him? Sigurd slides out of the car as Ivar hands him a ticket, limping off to the ramp to walk up rather than take the stairs.

Ivar and he didn’t talk much during the whole play. No, talking led to arguing and arguing led to Ivar trying to pick a fight. Then he would look like the asshole that allegedly started a fight with his cripple brother. That aside, you looked so beautiful, he didn’t want to ruin this day for you. Not when you practiced hours upon hours, twirled across the stage with not even a foot out of place and looked like the divine prima ballerina you always wanted to be. When the lights flickered on, it took a moment for him to realize that Ivar had slipped away.

He knew where.

* * *

“You were perfect.”

Sigurd heard behind your door, closed all but a crack. You paced from Ivar in a puffy red dress, donned in jewels to the vanity where you would set a bouquet of deep red roses into a vase that you usually left there to fill with flowers.

“You think so?” You mumble, fixing your tiara topped on your head and adjusted the beautiful stream of red ribbon that sat tight on your bun.

“Yes, anyone else would miss the mark.” His brother shifts to sit in the stool you pulled over to him while you adjusted your makeup and took down your hair. “Are you so sure you want to retire?”

“I’ll never be ready to retire. That’s where my home is.” You sigh raggedly, as if the thought of never dancing on stage again ached you deeply. “But I can teach and… thanks to you, I can go forward with the IUI and have a baby. Finally. I’ve been waiting so long.”

You slip behind the rosy shields that hide your curves from Ivar to find a long gown and heels, slipping them on and abandoning your ballet dress. You must have already done autographs, he notes.

“It’s not a problem, you only had to ask.” Ivar grunts. “We could have just had sex.”

You give a little laugh. “And hear Sigurd berate you? I don’t think so. He’ll be enraged as it is.”

Sigurd pieces it together quickly. IUI, which he had no idea what it meant, and having sex. And babies, can’t forget the babies. His brother was giving you sperm to undergo a procedure to have his babies. His mind went blank when he caught Ivar’s next words.

“–he’s been sleeping with anything willing.”

“That’s a lie.” Sigurd pushes the door to your dressing room open. You slip out from behind the rosy shields in a deep red dress, highlighting the best of your features as you stare blankly at him. Up close, he noticed that your hair was cut differently. There’s a twinkle of relief in your eyes without him– and you’re almost carefree. At least until he comes in.

“Sigurd.” You mumble, eyes scanning Ivar’s boots. “I didn’t know you came.”

Ivar sighs. “He was desperate to see you. So what am I but a good brother to bring him.”

You look over to your date of the night, clasping your bracelet on before smiling to him.

“Naturally.”Of course he wanted to come– this was the last night you would dance. You nod to Ivar, tilting your head. “Thank you Sigurd… but we were just on our way out.”

You hold your hand out to Ivar. He pushes himself up out of his chair, taking your hand in his. He hadn’t even gotten a word in edgewise when Ivar dropped his keys into Sigurd’s hand, walking off as if nothing had just happened. Your black heels clicked down the hall toward the elevator, disappearing into the distance.


	3. III: Plastic Wrapping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did you ever pick up the phone?

A few days later, your phone was trilling along the hard wood of your desk. It prattles against the desktop, reverberating and though you hadn’t flipped it over, you knew who it would be. Ivar wouldn’t be off until at least six in the evening which meant this was…

Sigurd Lothbrok.

You glared at the photo of him in the cutest of floral crowns, budding with white and gold flowers. Christ you thought, you weren’t sure why you hadn’t done like other women. Put a sassy, bitchy name on his contact or even delete the number that was burned into your brain.

Zzz, zzz…

The first call hung up. Less than ten minutes later, another began to trill. At least once a day, he began to bother you since your final recital. You didn’t blame Ivar. He faced pressure from all sides to supply Sigurd with him with a way back into his wife’s life. After all, the white stack of divorce papers sat there on your desk. They were still crisp as they were the first day you filled them out. But they were married to the white wood of your desk.

Zzz… zzz… zzz… You were so going to regret this.

“Hello?” You pluck up your phone, bringing the cherry red case to your ear.

“Can I come over?” His voice– shuddering.

“You don’t even know where I live. We should keep it that way.” You mumble, finding he would grunt.

“Considering you’re having a baby with Ivar, it might be important.” He remarks. A side sweep of his tongue leaves you without words. He must have overheard. You release another long sigh with a nod of your head. Fine, you had said. You gave him the directions to your new rental home and when the knock of the door came, you found yourself cursing yourself for letting him know where you lived. You open the door and stand aside, forcing yourself to ignore his adorable crazy mop of hair that was cropped short to the side of his face. Before with his braids– you had threatened him with a straightener. Even now, he just had the wild boy hair. 

“How did you find out?” You say as you close the door.

“I overheard.” He explains, dropping his briefcase of sheet music and other knick knacks on your posh wooden floor. “What are you thinking? There are millions of men out there. Ivar? He is crazy.”

You heard this song and dance before. You had been crazy this time, however, because you had taken his sperm.

“It has nothing to do with you anymore, Sigurd. I trust Ivar.” You lean against the cream coloured walls of your home, glaring at the persistent click of a silvery clock.

“He could never be a good father.” Sigurd snaps. All too suddenly, you snap too.

“Ivar actually wants to be a father. He is giving me a baby without conditions. I’ll allow him around. What did you ever have to offer me but lies?” You turn your hands up, leaning out towards him when Sigurd groans. Of course, he couldn’t escape this.

“That was not all of our relationship.” Sigurd’s arms fold one over another.

Maybe so. Maybe one of those very pictures of the day he proposed still sat on your coffee table, unable to tuck it away. Maybe you kept a summer solstice photo in your wallet as well, when he took you to celebrate with others who shared your common belief. But those days were done. It was easy to latch onto those things because they were without hard feelings.

“Who would you have give me children, Sigurd?” You supply, pushing off the wall. You pass through your foyer and through the living room to your kitchen. You would hold the island’s granite countertop as you look for wine.

“Someone that isn’t psychotic.” He supplies as you pour him a glass and hand it to him. “They have sperm banks.”

“A designer baby?” You laugh, bringing your own glass to your plump lips. “Ivar has everything I want. Beautiful blue eyes and a killer smile.”

Sigurd stands quiet, throwing his drink back down his throat quicker than he intended. You lean over the island in one of those cute white spaggheti strap tops– but he quickly notices your bra is sunshine yellow today, distracting him somewhat off his rage.

“Eyes up here, snake eyes.” You snap at him.

Sigurd stops. “You look beautiful.” He murmurs.

“So now you’re here for sex, Sigurd?” You grumble, much more grouchily than your usual, he makes a note of. That makes you stop at least, shaking your head as you set down your drink with a sharp crack.

“It’s the ovulation inducers they had me on before they injected me. I feel like shit, I’m bloated and my tits hurt.” You grumble about a headache– but he’s stopped listening. He knows Ivar’s seed is swimming in your uterus, but he doesn’t care.

“You haven’t had sex in a while, have you?” He remarks.

“Why?” You say with your hands finding your hips.

“It is like when you’re hungry– you get to be a bitch.” He teases as gently as he can and despite your growl at him not to call you that, you know he’s right. You’ve been aching to go out and have sex. But the whole act of having to dress up, drink, find a man, seduce the man and not even know if he would be a good fuck?

Exhausting.

“Shut up Sigurd…” You mumble, pushing your drink away. Slowly, Sigurd treds around the table as if to innocently approach you. You know better, but you can’t convince yourself to move when his arms encircle your waist. You’ve felt disgusting for months and as his jeans scratch against a black little skirt from your long day out, you can’t deny the urge to lean back against him. His cock has swelled to life under those pesky slender jeans.

“I don’t think you really want me to. Aren’t you lonely?” Sigurd suggests in your ear. Sure, you could call Ivar and ask him to fuck you into your mattress. But you hadn’t– and Sigurd thinks there is a reason for that when his hands cup your hips, grinding his cock against the shortness of your dress. You lean forward over the island, trying just so hard to will away the excitement that moistens your cunt. Sigurd melds his body over your back, muscles melding against yours. You shudder– knowing that his mop of blonde hair is what is tickling your nape.

“I know you are.” He whispers, beginning yo pull away altogether when your hand shoots out to his wrist, yanking him back.

“Just once.” You murmur in a low whisper, as if Ivar could hear you. “Do you have a condom?”

“Of course I have a condom.” Sigurd leans back, unbuckling his pants and sliding his wallet out from his back pocket. There’s a shuffling of plastic behind you before Sigurd’s tip is pushing in, filling your wet walls full of his cock. The condom feels as bizarre as it usually does deep within you, but the affectionate kissing against your neck rivals the pleasure from his fingers sliding between your legs to rub along your lips as he presses himself in completely.

“Did you miss it?” He husks out in your ear, withdrawing his hips agonizingly slow. He would thrust back in forcefully, a sole thrust filling you up completely. It had only been a year, but it felt so long since he had stretched your walls on his cock and filled you whole like this. With no answer, Sigurd’s rocking hips still.

“Tell me or I’ll take it from you.” Sigurd hisses in your ears, beginning to pull out when you grasp his slender hand massaging your outer lips.

“Please don’t.” You say with cheeks hot in embarrassment. “Of course… I… I want it.” You murmur, gasping when he chuckles, driving himself in with a stutter of his hips.

“Then beg for it like you mean it!” Sigurd teases you with an achingly slow drive forward and back, enough to tease you into the true pleasure he could give you. Like no other man could, not even Ivar, you were sure. If he could, it would be his fat cock you would be bouncing on.

“Please, fuck me Sigurd!” You shriek with a swallow of the pride that said– fuck Sigurd Lothbrok. Fuck him because you didn’t need him. But you did, fuck you needed him to pound you into a mess against this island and leave you used. “Please, please Sigurd please!”

Not sparing another second of those achingly slow thrusts, Sigurd forced himself deep within your body, ramming thrust after thrust in just the right way. Your body felt hot with embarassment, knowing that just a few hours ago you were injected with Ivar’s spunk, and here you were, gripping and milking Sigurd’s cock. You couldn’t tell Ivar. You could only imagine how he might throw his hands up in irritation and–

“You don’t think of anyone else.” Sigurd shoved your neck forward to the granite tabletop. Your cheek would rub rawly against the granite. His hand shifted around to your front, finding your clit like a map that was cemented in his memory. He curled his fingers against it how he knew you liked and in seconds, you were a moaning mess. Your body ached to take more of his thrusts, but there was only so much you could take.

“Mmmm, Sigurd!” Thoughts whizzing, cunt pulsing Sigurd found your weakness when he gasped out your name in return into your ear in husky puffs. Sigurd’s eyebrows forced together when he felt it. Your velvety walls contracting around him as if they were tugging him off in completion. He knows that you’ve hit that peak– if not from that, your wonderful screams that finish him off completely. His hips buckle, seed spilling into the condom that gripped him so tightly. Sigurd pants above you, forcing air into his lungs as he slows down a few remaining thrusts then pulls out altogether. Liquid remorse spills through you as you catch your breath feeling almost dirty– sticky. Almost as if something was seeping out. Impossible, because Sigurd wouldn’t and you’ve never had a man do that to you anyway. He didn’t want babies.. The only other explanation was how much lube he must have used.

“Too much lube or… maybe its me, Sigurd. I’m going to go shower, you can text me.” You murmur while he tucks himself away, the condom disposed in the trash. He walks back to the foyer, picking up his bag. You hold the door open for him this time, and as he gives you a kiss to the cheek, you notice a trace smile beaming on his lips.

Of course, you chalk it up to being laid… but Sigurd knows far better than that.


	4. IV: Not So Boneless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Y/N) makes the mistake of having a baby shower with the Rangarssons.

I guess Boneless isn’t so Boneless after all! #14weeksstrong #Ivar&(Y/N) #Hopingforalittleballerina

It had been months since he’d been around you. Four since he had gotten into that sweet little cunt of yours with condoms pricked with holes. Four months of jerking his dick to your memory until his world was rocked upside down. In the months since, he saw all about your pregnancy on social media. It was blasted all over your favourite site. A little pink pregnant test with a sassy little remark on top of a white fluffy tutu and the most sparkly little red shoes he had ever seen.

Beautiful, he thought. But it was marred by your manicured hand grazing Ivar’s sideburns, laying a bright red lipstick stain to the side of his cheek. Worse still with Ivar’s hand touching the slight swell of your stomach, massaging what he thought was his son or daughter. It could very well have been his, sure. But as Sigurd lamented bitterly, it very likely could have been his just as much as Ivar’s.

Sigurd.S.Lothbrok: Congrats @(Y/N).Lothbrok.

3h.

TheoneandonlyHvitty: Guess we were wrong when we said we didn’t think he had it in him. Congrats @(Y/N).Lothbrok.

1h.

UbbeLothbrok: Quit picking on him.

40min.

Ivar.Boneless.Lothbrok: Ha. Ha. You’re uninvited to our baby shower. @TheoneandonlyHvitty.

36min.

(Y/N).Lothbrok: Oh stop bickering. I’ll uninvite you all and do it myself.

35min.

Ivar.Boneless.Lothbrok: My heart.

30min.

Aslaug Kraka: That’s enough boys.

22min.

Mommy to the rescue. The more he read, the more he wanted to vomit.

The months were passing quickly. With it, you were growing. Every week Ivar would take a little picture of your stomach, cheesily making a pun or comparing it to fruit. There was such a thing as happiness when he came to take your picture and laugh with you. Just like the nights when you were sick. If he could get off early from his job as head engineer, he would. He was climbing the ladder at work so quickly that you worried he might not have time for the baby and you. Then again, this baby technically had nothing to do with him… right?

“Are you overthinking again?” Ivar staggers by you as you slather messy barbecue sauce over chicken on a stick. You give a soft, disappointed ‘oh,’ when you drop a bit on a crimson dress that sits over your growing bump. Six months in, your belly was beginning to become a little obnoxious. For a dancer, it was strange to have to be so careful about it.

“Sigurd hasn’t responded to the divorce papers yet.” You murmur back to Ivar, slathering the other side with a sigh. Ivar clicks his tongue, dropping into his chair at the table.

“He has no leverage.” He says.

Except for stuffing his fat dick in your cunt. You shift awkwardly, not having told Ivar about your weak moment months and months ago. Your cunt was still aching, needing the sex more and more the farther you got along into the pregnancy. There were nights where you rolled over and stared at your phone, hoping that he would drop by to say something stupid. Your smile clicks at your cheeks.

“It’s all the hormones.” You look for your hand fan to cool yourself off. There was going to be a baby shower with Ivar’s family today and you were more than stressed about it, eating up the fruit that Aslaug had put out in sheer anxiety.

“Let me fuck you.” Ivar glides his hand over your belly. “You’d be less stressed.”

If that wasn’t the fucking truth. “Not right now, Ivar. Imagine what Aslaug would say about her cock hungry daughter in law.” You laugh the words out.

“That you’re pregnant with her grandchild and need the attention.” Ivar answers. It’s only recently that you’ve agreed to have sex with him– and god, he has no regrets. He loves the bonding, loves the way you hold him so tight and loves plundering what was once his brothers. This was his little family now.

“If I had your attention all day I’d be constantly leaking.” You say with a laugh.

“Not a bad problem to have.” Ivar remarks.

In the doorway, Aslaug bustles in to collect the food. You glance lazily to her as she tells you to hurry up to be a good hostess. Sigurd is out there… you know that much. You glide your hands over the bump, and with a sigh, walk out the doorway.

For the most part, Sigurd was behaved. All things considered, it shocked you. Not only because Sigurd hated his brother but because you were pregnant by him. You plucked up a deep chocolate cake out of a teacup, looking over to where he was sitting with Ubbe and Hvitserk. There was something awkward in the air between the two of you. You hardly said a word to one another all evening. For the ever doting Sigurd, that was odd. He was treating you as if you weren’t there, lurking about despite the fact that it was your baby shower.

“What is it with Sigurd?” You lean over to Aslaug. She was decorating a onesie, humming as she gave Sigurd a glance.

“With Sigurd, we never know.” She remarks as she goes back to what she was doing. “Is there something on your mind?”

You let him fuck you, you whore. “No, nothing…” You murmur, arms folding over another. You looked to your decaf coffee, bringing it to your lips for a drink.

“There is something special we would like to do, now that we all have eaten!” Ivar is talking– causing you to look up from your place. “Since (Y/N) wanted to save the gender of the baby until now, we should see what it is. Shouldn’t we, (Y/N)?”

God, it pained you to see how bright his smile was. You should have told him about Sigurd… but you could still tell him. It would be when things calmed down a little bit. Ivar waited behind you, offering out his hand to help you up. You took his hand when offered, moving to where he was about a cake when you heard it. The slam of hands against the quaint whimsical white table cover then the hiss behind you.

“I have something to tell you Ivar!” Sigurd, whose arms flexed in a tight blue top. You glance over to him, dread in your stomach. Bjorn was trying to will his brother to sit again, but it was getting nowhere fast. “I want a paternity test done.”

Ivar hardly skips a beat. “You aren’t the father, Sigurd. She hasn’t slept with you. Has she?” Ivar says under the cover of whispers. Your breath feels short, knowing that if you told him– he would most definitely explode. But worse so was the fact that… Sigurd used condoms. He was very careful about his sex life. So why was he asking you this now? Ivar’s eyes turn to you.

“Has she?” He reiterates.

Your heart stops at that, unable to look him in his eyes. “Only once, it was an accident. But Sigurd uses condoms. How could…”

Then it hits you. The stickiness in your cunt, the way that you felt like your walls were slipping with what you foolishly deemed as lube when you took a shower. Before when Sigurd refused to cum inside you, you never would have thought he would betray you. Ivar is seething darkly, breathing in forced breathes when you’re the one to explode first, catching Ivar by surprise. His anger is cut short when you stormed around the table, shoving Sigurd back by the chest.

“You fucking stealthed me?!” You roar.

“Popped holes.” He corrects as if that would make any sort of difference. Hot embarrassment and betrayal take you over, bursting outright at him under the quiet that has come over those gathered.

“You fucking asshole!” You shriek, unable to hold it back. “I didn’t want your fucking baby! I wanted Ivars!”

Sigurd staggers back in disbelief of what you said. Since you were teens, you had always told him you wanted his babies in the future. Over ten years of begging for his babies and now– you were acting like this? Sigurd curls his head, leaning in to grab your shoulders.

“Of course you want my babies. You’re my wife, not his.” He murmurs.

“Sigurd!” Aslaug reprimands.

“What mother?” Sigurd hisses, shoving his head in her direction when Ivar grabs Sigurd’s slender wrist on your shoulder. He twists it back and Sigurd instinctually ripped back, balling his fist up as if to punch him in the face. The older of the brothers stand up behind Sigurd. But no punches come. Instead you plant yourself in front of Ivar.

“I’ll do it. But I think you should leave.” You take in a harsh breath. “…and I strongly advise you respond to our divorce so I can finalize it when the baby comes.”

Sigurd nearly challenges you, but instead his hand curls back to his side and shoves into his pockets. You convince yourself to keep your head held high despite the tears that bite the corner of your eyes and course down your jawline.

“Of course.” He grumbles, sliding past Lagertha on his way out of his mother’s home. You turn away and head out when Ivar grasps your wrist. Past the crinkle of his brow, his clouded eyes shift to the cake.

“We didn’t finish.” Ivar remarks, limping behind to corral you back to the cake. You don’t even want to look at it anymore either. Ivar looks to his mother who hands him the white grip of his knife. He hands it to you, cupping your hand over it to gently ease the blade into the cake. The first cut was the hardest. Your hands shake like leaves when you remove the blade, then cut again on the other side. Ivar’s hand shakes as he releases the knife, angling your face up towards him. His lips were as soft, plush up against yours. Before you can deepen the kiss, he slides away.

“Hm.” Ivar whispers with a shudder. “A girl.” A precious little girl.


	5. V: Aurelie... Snake in the Eye?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader reveals the results of her paternity test.

Luckily, you had not blocked him from your social media. He followed your progress from his family’s baby shower to that of yours– where shockingly, Ivar had gone. He had been sure that after the blow out, Ivar would have fucked off. In fact a part of him was banking on it. After such a betrayal, he hoped Ivar would have broke up with you. Sigurd would be there to welcome you back into his arms. Yet you stood by your alleged baby daddy and he did by you as well. A few months later, he noticed a new picture pop up on your page. A blonde little baby swaddled in deep red cheesecake cloth and a few rose petals strewn around her deep brown basket.

(Y/N) Lothbrok– 22h.

Aurelie Lothbrok

11.4 @ 11:36pm.

7 pounds 11 ounces.

19 inches long.

UbbeLothbrok: Congratulations @(Y/N).Lothbrok & @Ivar.Boneless.Lothbrok

TheoneandonlyHvitty: Ask (Y/N) if I come over. @Ivar.Boneless.Lothbrok

Aslaug.Kraka: She’s sleeping. Come over quietly.

He debated with himself for some time if he should actually say something. A sweet congratulations, eager to see the little girl… but in the end, he decided to bite his tongue and respond carefully. He knew he was walking on thin ice to begin with. It would be the last thing he wanted to be blocked out of his daughter’s life or– as he prayed wasn’t true, his niece’s life.

Sigurd.S.Lothbrok: She’s beautiful.

Several months later, his phone buzzed to life. He only noticed because he was in the car, driving home with his guitar occupying the empty seat beside him. As he pulled to a stop in front of his home, he read the contents of your text message.

Princess:

Ivar and I did the test. Do you want to talk about it over for coffee?

Me:

Sure. I’ll come over.

Princess:

Alright.

* * *

So there he was, driving to find out whose child this was. It could have been his— but her eyes lacked the snake entwined eyes he was famous for. He found himself in something of knots when he came to the door. His knuckles rasp against the heavy door in a one two knock. The door would creak open, revealing his beautiful wife. Your hair was braided down over your breast as you stepped aside. You were lazy in a cherry red tank top and tiny shorts, a few splotchy stains of milk over your breast.

“Come in.” You usher him forward. He steps into the home, looking around for the baby in question. He quickly found her whining on a mat, kicking her legs and staring at a colourful raven and pen set on her tummy.

“Is she supposed to be on her tummy?” Sigurd asks moving over to bend on one knee beside her.

“It’s called tummy time.” You answer sharply, moving back to the kitchen. He hears your coffee machine hissing. “It’ll strengthen her muscles so she can crawl.”

Sigurd scoffs, hand over the frilly ruffles of the pajamas the little girl wore. “Already pushing her to walk and talk?” He muses as if the gentleness of violins and piano was not typical of his ballerina. You had after all, Sigurd’s deep blue piano in your apartment. The one that he would play and watch you twirl around the living room to the hum of his keys.

“Ivar is.” You bring over a cup of steaming hot coffee steaming with warm notes of vanilla and powdery cinnamon over a pillow of whipped cream.

“Of course he is.” Sigurd suppresses the hate in his voice. You slide onto the floor with a manila envelope under your arm. The sacred papers, he thinks. With a sip of your coffee, you set the mug aside and unclasp the envelope. Then, unfurling the papers from their hiding place you hold them out to him. They have obviously been handled before. He doesn’t blame you for your curiosity.

Aurelie Lothbrok | Ivar Lothbrok

He skims beyond the talk of allele sizes, numbers and tests. None of which make sense to him being a rather well of musician. Then he comes upon a section that reads Interpretation: Combined Paternity Index: Thousands. Possibility of Paternity: 99.9998%.

The words on the page are haunting, locking his snake entwined eyes on the paper. For months, he had been telling himself that his seed could have done it. That the little girl who you now flipped onto her tummy and twirled the music box above her, was his daughter. Perhaps he didn’t even want a child, sure. But it you had a child, he wanted it to be his. There was no other way of looking at it for him.

Yet– he knows he has betrayed your trust. He broke it into bits of pieces months ago when he admitted that he tried to impregnate you without consent. Errant bolts of distaste for the paper come over him when he hands it back to you. There was a reason his traitorous family kept going on as if nothing had happened. As if the love of his life hadn’t just given birth to his brother’s daughter. The brother that he had many a discourse with.

“Congratulations.” Sigurd bites out, more hateful than he would like. “You have the father you wanted.”

He wanted the words back the second he said them. They were harsh– as if you hadn’t spent years begging Sigurd to give you a son or daughter. No, he thinks. He had to be honest with her. He spent too long lying to her. Your head rolls back and Sigurd finally notices the tears that have been pricking your eyes for such a time.

“You have no idea what I wanted. You never listened.” You set the coffee aside and look to little Aurelie. Her feet kick out in jubilation, chubby and uncontained. She’s small, barely large enough for her eyes to track the colorful bird her grandfather had fashioned her to play with.

“I listened.” He complains, eyes slowly gliding back to yours. “I… didn’t want to share you with someone else. I didn’t expect you would go find someone else to do my job.”

You heard this speech one too many times because your eyes are already rolling in irritation from hearing it one more time. Suddenly, you lurch out to smack him across the face. Your palm collides with his pale cheek, heating it with a splotchy red mark.

“Then you should have done it without lying to me!” You exclaim. “You raped me instead of talking to me.”

He knows he deserved that slap. He turns his eyes back to you and rakes his hands through his shaggy blond hair. His heated cheek is beating with all the blood that pumps through his head so harshly.

“I did it because I love you, (Y/N). Would you really have let me knock you up?” 

Silence. Then a sigh.

“No.” Your hands run together. “Because you betrayed my trust before– not including this time. I… I’m not surprised that you would do that.”

Do what? Try to keep you his by becoming the father of your child? Or was it skate back into your arms? He missed the way you stroked his curly hair, kissed the top of his head and didn’t care at all if he wasn’t the cutest of his brothers. He missed crawling into bed knowing that you would be right there if something was wrong.

He missed it all.

“You didn’t say. Do you still love me, (Y/N)?” Sigurd asks the question that has been at the forefront of his mind for months. You finally have to excuse yourself with your mug back to the kitchen. It clatters back into the sink– and he knows he has his answer when he looks over to your coffee table. There was a photo of Ivar kissing you, round and pregnant, of course. But there was another one. Your wedding day in Italy where Sigurd dipped you in that tight little white mermaid gown with a sole red ribbon around your waist.

He knew he hadn’t lost you completely, and so, he plucks up his niece and walks into the kitchen. You stand over by the sink with your hands laced in your hair. You glance up to him coming in– and he sees the shock written over your face. This was… an innocent movement.

“You could have been a good father, Sigurd. If only the bitterness didn’t consume you…” You mumble, taking your daughter of his arms. He feels shockingly empty when you excuse yourself up the stairs, leaving him with alone and confused– was this chapter with you truly over? Had he lost to Ivar?


	6. VI: When I Was Your Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's finally done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the ONLY song fic I have.

It was finally over.

Your divorce to Sigurd Lothbrok had been finalized earlier in the morning. It was final. Done.

“So why don’t you put away that ridiculous picture?” Ivar asks beside you, glancing to the pristine coffee table where the offending photo was.

“It’s staying there.” You say curtly.

It shouldn’t have been there. Sigurd was the man that had lied to you, he forced his silken seed upon you in the hope that your beautiful six month old daughter would be his. Yet when you saw him in that photo, the glitter of his infectious smile behind that mop of blond ridiculous hair… you couldn’t see anyone but your Sigurd.

“He’s a fucking rapist, (Y/N). Why are you so attached?” Ivar hisses as you mop the ground with sudsy water. He looks down to Aurelie who tosses herself from her round belly onto her back for the soapy bubbles he was blowing for her.

“I don’t know, can that be okay?!” You exclaim. It really wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. Unfortunately, your emotions were a maelstrom of disbelief, longing and excitement. Aurelie was everything you wanted and more but—

It wasn’t the same without Sigurd’s jaunty tunes on the piano. Or when he would strum his guitar with those willowy fingers.

Ivar was scoffing behind you. He had moved in with you just recently and this? You knew it was unbelievable to him. Pulling out the drawer beside you, you took the photo from its place and slid it away. You turn back to Ivar, abandoning the mop to collapse beside him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it’s just all so fresh.” You supply, moving your thumbs over his short, scruffy sideburns.

“Hm.” He grunts. For a minute his eyes flicker away to the daughter you shared with him, then back to you when your soft, pillowy lips pressed against his for the first time ever. You never spoke of what this was. It was parenting, it was sex, it was sharing a life together. It was never really romance. Your lips leave his almost apologetically for muddying the waters. He can’t say anything— and shamefully so you won’t.

“Let’s go for dinner tonight.” Ivar adjusts his watch on his thick wrist. It was only four— but she would be in bed by seven. Hopefully.

“You think she’ll last?” You laugh somewhat.

“Why not? Let’s celebrate the ending of the old…” Ivar moves his hand back to your cheek, leaning in to press his lips decidedly more forcefully against yours. “…and the beginning of something new.”

What had you just done?

You were never sure of how you felt about Ivar. To say you never looked at him in high school was a lie. Now– Ivar had a way of impressing you no matter what you thought his limitations were. There was something so sexy to you about the way he managed crutch in one arm and Aurelie’s detachable car seat in the other. Your sharply red heels clicked as you moved to sit in a plush chair at the table Ivar reserved, pulling up the high chair so that Ivar could set his daughter down carefully.

“You look damn beautiful.”

Half an hour in and Ivar was deep in his wine bottle, caressing your chin when you ate something, slapping him with the white cloth to get him off. A laugh off your lips and one would spill off of Ivar’s too, commenting on how beautiful you were in that tight black dress. But then, all too suddenly, he caught something changing in his peripheral vision. Dread filled his stomach like the empty bowl in front of him, overfilling when your eyes snapped to the stage.

Ivar drops his napkin, eye hooded as he glares to where she is looking. Sigurd– that curly mopped bastard. He was sitting right there, fingers strumming a low song against the reverberating strings. Cry a fucking river, he plucked out one of those upsetting songs that he knew would get under your skin.

The arts binded Sigurd and you like it was lifeblood.

_Now I never, never get to clean up the mess I made, ohh…_

_And it haunts me every time I close my eyes._

Sigurd knew the right lines. He always knew how to string his fingers along something– your hair, his guitar, the piano where he would play and you would dance around him. Those strings felt like they were so tightly bound around your heart that you wanted to burst. And you felt as if you couldn’t breathe. Like this was like every other fight where he could just make you dance and laugh. Like what he had done to make you leave and continued to do was forgivable. It wasn’t. It would never be!

_Although it hurts  
I’ll be the first to say that I was wrong  
Oh, I know I’m probably much too late  
To try and apologize for my mistakes _

The way his lips pursed against the cold woven metal of his microphone. His handsome face bringing you back to every stupid fight you had.

_“Why don’t you buy me any flowers?” You asked him in the back after another one of your recitals. This one, in Paris. It had been months and all you wanted to do was hold his hand and enjoy him._

_“You get plenty of roses on stage.” Sigurd said blankly, arms folded over his chest as you opened your door to the dressing room. This was your first event as prima ballerina, a star role in Swan Lake._

_“But they’re not from you.” Your voice cracked._

_“It cost enough to get here… are we really going to fight?” Sigurd said as you dipped into the room and the door nearly bounced off its hinges with the force of your slam. He never knew there was a difference if he was there from you._

Those memories were liked a stain, washed away from your memory. You wanted to forgive what he did. If it meant… going up there, sitting next to him and listening to his song. Your limbs protested your thoughts, anchoring down in that chair. All laughs had gone out of the window, replaced by the eerie silence between both of your bodies. Eerie because you knew this place, the people there knew it was you he was talking about. When you dated, he used to bring you here to listen to him in his latest tracks. He promised this musical career would go somewhere and that one day, he might be able to marry his music with your trembling feet across the vast stage of the ballet.

_Take you to every party_

_‘Cause I remember how much you loved to dance_

_Do all the things I should have done_

_When I was your man._

The wetness of your tears down your cheeks was too much– everything was. Your red manicured fingers came back to your painted lips, fingers dampening by every stream of tears that slickens your hand. The chorus played one last time, eyes swept by the watering of his eyes that kept yours like you were hypnotized to a snake.

Then he stepped off from his place on the stage, bobbing from the stairs to his table. Ivar was watching you stare at his brother. He said nothing, nothing at all even when your chair pushed out. Your hand slipped down to your breast, tears streaming down your cheeks and legs slightly bent to support yourself. Then Ivar would speak.

“At least he’s moving to Paris. You won’t have to see him anymore.” Ivar’s words were but a foreign whisper in your ear.

Don’t go.

You just couldn’t bring yourself to call out his name.


End file.
